


your heart is the only place that i call home

by infinitefire



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene(s), Promises, Proposals, combines book and show canon, or "you keep using that word. i do not think it means what you think it means" situations, or whatever, plus some scenes you've already seen (pun intended), so like sorry for any mistakes, this isn't even edited i just wanted it to be done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitefire/pseuds/infinitefire
Summary: The night before Pavetta's banquet, Queen Calanthe makes a promise.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	your heart is the only place that i call home

**Author's Note:**

> the line about promises in a question of price literally keeps me up at night & i've probably watched those 30 seconds of the show where eist announces their engagement 20+ times just to try and decipher that eyebrow raise & then i had a thought which turned into a fic. some dialogue is taken directly from the book and show.
> 
> title from "heartlines" by florence + the machine

As requested by the Lioness of Cintra, the Skelligens arrive the day before the feast. The herald announces them; four islanders bow before the queen.

“It is a great honor to welcome such an excellent knight as Eist Tuirseach of Skellige to my castle again.” Eist thinks perhaps he detects a small blush on her face. It almost surprises him to see the formidable Queen Calanthe blush, but the memories of his last visit nearly bring a similar flush to his own face. “If it weren’t for your well-known disdain for marriage—” Eist manages to contain his laughter, but he knows she can see it dancing in his eyes, and he can see it reflected in hers, for they both know very well that she is the exception to this alleged disdain for marriage—“I’d be delighted to think you’re here to court my Pavetta. Has loneliness got the better of you after all, sir?”

“Often enough, beautiful Calanthe,” he replies. “But my lifestyle is too unpredictable, too irregular for me to contemplate a lasting union. If it weren’t for that… Pavetta is still a young girl, but I can see…”

“See what?”

“The apple does not fall far from the tree. Suffice it to look at you, my queen, to know how beautiful the princess will be when she is fully grown. In the meantime, it is young men who ought to court her. Such as our King Bran’s nephew here, Crach an Craite, who travelled here for exactly that purpose.”

Crach kneels.

“Who else have you brought, Eist?”

Eist introduces Mousesack, gallant druid, and Draig Bon-Dhu, famous skald. They both kneel beside Crach.

“Welcome, noble guests. Tuirseach …” she extends a hand to Eist, who takes it in his and presses his lips to her knuckles. She curls her fingers around his hand slightly as she pulls back her arm, bringing him closer.

“Eleven o-clock,” she whispers in his ear. She doesn’t have to elaborate. He knows what to do by now. Go to her chambers at the requested time. Try not to run into too many people along the way. Don’t wear too many clothes.

He smiles and nods in understanding.

* * *

The guards open the doors for Eist without a word, and close them immediately once he is inside. Not for the first time, he wonders whether the whole castle knows about… whatever it is between himself and the Queen; wonders if they’re all talking about it; wonders what sort of threats Calanthe has been imposing to keep them quiet despite it being a rather open secret. (He decides not knowing the last part is probably a good thing, since it means he’s not on the receiving end of those threats. Not that he would especially mind, but as attractive as the Lioness of Cintra is wielding a sword and tearing men apart limb by limb, he does value his life somewhat.)

Calanthe is sitting in one of two chairs at a small table set with two tankards and a large pitcher. One of her hands is curled around the handle of a tankard; the other drums its fingers idly on the armrest. Her hair is tied loosely into a long braid which flows over her shoulder. She’s turned ever so slightly away from him, so he can’t quite make out her expression, but she’s wearing a thicker robe than usual, one that would keep her warm through the night in her own body heat, suggesting she didn’t invite him here _just_ to fuck his brains out this time.

He bows slightly. “Your Majesty.”

Looking at him through the corner of her eye, Calanthe scoffs and shakes her head. “You’re in my bedchamber, Tuirseach,” she says dryly, still not turning to face him. 

“Calanthe.”

Eist does not see her smile so much as hear it in her voice. “Sit.”

He takes the seat opposite her, and she fills the tankard in front of him, then refills her own and takes a long drink. When she sets it down again, he finally gets a good look at her face, at her tired eyes.

“We have business to discuss,” she says.

“What kind of business?” he smirks, hoping to bring even the smallest hint of a smile to her face. It doesn’t quite work, but he thinks he can sense her release a little bit of the tension in her body. 

“Not the kind you’re certainly thinking of. At least not yet. Duty then pleasure, Eist. The alliance between Cintra and Skellige will be sealed by marriage tomorrow night, but I’d rather not wait until then to begin working out the details. We both need this alliance to boost our military power, so why waste time waiting for the formalities to be over?”

* * *

“Marry me,” he says suddenly, in the midst of their discussion about some of the finer points of naval battle tactics.

Calanthe, unsurprised, merely shakes her head. “You really want a whole lifetime of this?”

“Of what? Spending my nights with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met?”

That gets him a hint of a smile. “No. Discussing political alliances.”

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I imagine I won’t have to be nearly as secretive about it.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Which part?”

“Both.”

“Hmm. You’re right about one of them.” She pauses to take a drink from her mug. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“As much time as I spend at sea, in the middle of the action, I already have a fair amount of politics in my life. You, my queen, are more than capable of handling Cintra’s state affairs on your own, and given your—” he smiles—“disdain for marriage—” she snorts at the repetition of her own words—“I expect you’d be reluctant to trust anyone else with such responsibilities.”

“I suppose you’re right about that,” she says with a small, almost imperceptible smile. Then it fades. “But I’ve told you twice already, Tuirseach, my answer is no.”

“I know. But if circumstances were to change … would you reconsider?”

“What are you saying, Eist?”

“Should anything happen to get in the way of Pavetta and Crach’s union … you said it yourself, both Cintra and Skellige need this alliance.” Calanthe opens her mouth to say something. “I know it is not your first choice,” he continues before she can get a word out, “for reasons I do not understand but respect nonetheless, but, if it comes to it, will you marry me?”

He cannot read the creases which form in her face, and the look in her eyes is a touch too distant for him to discern. There may be tears in her eyes, but in the dimness of the night it is hard to tell whether their glistening is due to emotion or merely a trick of flickering firelight.

“I’ve done far worse things than marry you to save my kingdom,” she says.

“Is that a yes?”

She reaches across the table and takes his hand in both of hers. “Yes. If anything happens to prevent Pavetta and Crach getting married, and there is nothing else I can do about it, I will marry you. I promise.”

Eist smiles. She smiles back. She rounds the table, sits herself in his lap, cups his face and kisses him, sighs into his lips and melts into his embrace as he wraps an arm around her waist.

“Come to bed with me,” she murmurs.

“As you wish.”

* * *

“You should go back to your rooms,” Calanthe says regretfully, not moving from her place curled into Eist’s side, head on his shoulder, arm on his chest, one leg wrapped around his.

“Mmm.”

The pleasant vibrations from his voice do nothing to help Calanthe’s resolve to extract herself from their embrace so Eist can get up and leave lest he be caught sneaking out of the queen’s chambers in the morning. She’s never particularly cared about gossip, usually doesn’t pay it any mind unless strictly necessary, but now is a crucial time for Cintra with Pavetta’s upcoming betrothal. And Calanthe knows what might be coming tomorrow. There’s a good chance everything might go to hell, and if the banquet becomes a bloodbath, she can’t afford to have any bad rumors already floating around.

She shifts slightly, propping herself up on her elbow and lifting her head from his shoulder.

He opens his eyes. “Are you commanding me to leave?”

“Eist…”

“Do you want me to?”

_No_ , Calanthe wants to say, but doesn’t. (The twinge of sorrow in her eyes says it for her.) “It wouldn’t do for you to be seen coming out from my chambers in the morning. You know that,” she says instead.

He moves to sit up. She disentangles their legs to give him the space to do so and sits up beside him. He leans in and kisses her gently. Her eyelids fall shut.

He slides off the bed, goes to pick up his robe where it was discarded on the floor, puts it on. Runs a hand through his hair, which Calanthe did a very thorough and successful job making a mess of. “Sleep well, Calanthe,” he says with a small smile. 

“Sleep well, Eist,” she replies, more than a hint of longing in her voice and the smile she gives him in return.

* * *

Calanthe’s suspicion that everything might go to hell proves justified. A knight without a face claims the Law of Surprise, explains that he saved Roegner’s life—the queen silently curses the idiot, wishes he’d died sooner—and was promised Pavetta in return.

Eist turns to face her. “Calanthe, is what he says true?”

“And if it is, so what?” she says through gritted teeth.

“If what he says is true, then the promise will have to be kept.”

“Is that so?”

“Or am I to understand that you treat all promises this lightly, including those which have etched themselves so deeply in my memory?”

“Eist,” she whispers, cheeks flushed, lips trembling, tears in her eyes, “this is different—”

“Is it, really?”

Suddenly, someone charges forward and knocks off the mysterious knight’s helmet to reveal a man with the face of a hedgehog. Chaos erupts. Swords are drawn. The throne room of Cintra turns into a bar fight or a battlefield.

Pavetta screams, and everything falls apart.

* * *

The whirlwind stops, and slowly, everyone rises from the rubble.

“Destiny has spoken,” announces the queen, “and I have listened. Pavetta will marry Lord Urcheon.”

With a wide smile, Pavetta runs excitedly into her lover’s arms.

Eist steps forward and in a sudden act of boldness,

takes Calanthe’s hand. “React poorly, and you won’t just face the Lioness, but the Sea Hounds of Skellige! Because Queen Calanthe has…”—he turns his head to look at her, a bit longingly, as if searching for some sign of reassurance, some sign she still wants him—“accepted my proposal of marriage.”

Queen Calanthe turns to make eye contact, eyebrow raised.

‘You made a promise,’ say his eyes.

She knows. She remembers her promise, had every intention of keeping it. It’s the lack of hesitation that shocks her—not the fact that he would marry her without a second thought, but the fact that he would announce their engagement to the Lioness of Cintra in her own throne room without her express permission to do so. If it were anyone else, she would be angry. Her whole life has been a violent uphill battle to gain the respect and authority she has, to establish her reputation as the Lioness, the queen who will slay her enemies and anyone who dares cross her with her own sword, and she has not fought this battle only to be forced to cave to the demands of a man who seized an opportunity to become King of Cintra.

But this is Eist. Eist, who asked her hand three times and laughed every time she suggested that he was motivated in any way by the prospect of becoming a king. Eist, who lets her fuck him as she pleases and enjoys it and doesn’t say a word about it not being her place as a woman or give any indication that he takes it as an insult to his masculinity. Eist, who still greets her as “Your Majesty” when he enters her bedchamber on her invitation, but calls her “Calanthe” at formal events where addressing the queen simply by her first name may be seen as a bit too familiar. Eist, who makes ridiculous comments that have her struggling to hold back laughter not at his idiocy, but despite it. Eist, who just now confessed his love for her as she lay powerless among fragments of her own throne. Eist, who wants _her_ and not her power. 

This is Eist, and she wants to marry him.

A small, soft smile appears on her lips.

“There will be two vows here tonight!” she cries. “I trust that’s agreeable.”

No response. Good.

“Delightful.”

* * *

“Fuck.”

Geralt exits the hall. Mousesack takes one last concerned look at Pavetta, mumbles something about the apple not falling far from the tree with a sideways glance at Calanthe and Eist, and follows the witcher.

Calanthe, fuming, reluctantly gives in to the rational part of her brain that tells her to at least wait until after the banquet before plotting any murders so as not to destroy the last shreds of civility in the room.

Still, the silence does not break until Mousesack returns. The queen asks him to perform the binding ceremony. Everyone is already gathered here holding candles, after all. 

* * *

Calanthe dismisses the guests from the feast shortly after her own wedding. She doesn’t care if it comes off bit impolite. The night has been eventful enough, and her throne room is in ruins—continuing the party at this point would be unpleasant, bordering on dangerous, and though she may not be opposed to unpleasantness or danger, neither has a place at a royal banquet. 

“Mousesack,” she calls to the druid before he has a chance to leave the room. “I thought I heard you muttering something just before you went after that witcher. What was it, sorcerer?”

“Nothing, your Majesty.”

“Good. While we’re at it, I’ve got a proposition for you, Mousesack. Pavetta’s going to need a teacher. She ought to learn how to use her gift. I like this castle, and I’d prefer it to remain standing. It might fall apart at my talented daughter’s next attack of hysteria. How about it, Druid?”

Mousesack smiles. “I’m honored.”

Calanthe nods, dismisses him. Eist, still standing by her side, clears his throat.

“My queen,” he murmurs, “grant me leave. I want to retrieve something from my chambers. Perhaps bathe.”

“Not on your life, Tuirseach.” She grabs a firm hold of his wrist. “You’re staying right here, then coming with me.” His arm squirms a little under the strength of her grip. She looks at him, smiles properly, and drops her grip to lace their fingers together.

* * *

“Impatient, are we?” she smiles, standing at her dresser as she removes her earrings and crown.

“Impatient?” Eist repeats. It’s hardly been five seconds since they reached her chambers; he hasn’t even had the chance to do anything.

“And a little bit presumptuous?” The teasing tone in her voice is unmistakable. She grins at him when she turns back around and sees the confusion on his face. “Announcing our engagement like that?”

“You made a promise,” he says seriously.

“Had you been able to wait ten seconds after I told everyone I’d let Pavetta marry that hedgehog, I would’ve made the announcement myself.” She walks closer to him. “You men intimidate people just by looking big and strong. I have to rely on the dramatic pauses.”

“And your unparalleled battle skills.”

Calanthe smiles widely at that.

“I hardly think I am the only impatient one here, though.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“If I recall correctly, _you_ decided we were getting married _tonight_.” 

“I did,” she says, looking quite pleased with herself, and leans in to kiss him.

“And insisted that I come back to your chambers with you immediately after the feast was over, without stopping at my own for so much as a bath.”

“Bath can be drawn up anywhere.” Another kiss. “And make that _our_ chambers.”

“Our chambers?” He wraps an arm around her waist.

“Yes.”

A smile spreads across his face. “Well, then, I look forward to spending my first night with my wife in _our_ chambers,” he says, and begins kissing her neck.

Calanthe laughs, mostly at the fact that this is by no means their first night together in these chambers. “I… I do need at least some rest,” she says, somewhat apologetically. “It’s nearly dawn, and there’s much to do tomorrow. I have two weddings to announce, a pregnant daughter to deal with, a son-in-law to threaten, and, if it proves necessary, an assassin or two to hire.”

“Can those things not wait?”

“I suppose I am the queen…”

She tries to kiss the smile off his face, but she’s smiling too, and they just end up laughing softly into each other’s mouths. Eist leans down to rest his forehead against Calanthe’s. She runs her fingers through the curls at the back of his head, which makes him sigh and close his eyes halfway. She kisses him deeply.

“I love you,” she says.

It takes him a moment to process the words that have just passed from her lips, the adoring look on her face. Trembling a little in awe, he leans in to kiss her again before echoing, “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!! leave a comment to receive my eternal love and gratitude :)


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